


Oubliette

by Xyriath



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blood, Implied/Referenced Torture, James Griffin/Ryan Kinkade (implied), M/M, Minor Character Death, potential reading as sexual assault i guess but doesn't have to be?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:47:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: I’m going to die here.The incontrovertible knowledge rang through James’s head, a distant, emotionless fact no more or less significant than “water is wet” and “grass is green.”Above him, the Galra stalked over.  The pain in James’s leg burned through him like a hot wire, but that wouldn't matter in a moment.





	Oubliette

**Author's Note:**

> sleepy. [art and twitter post here.](https://twitter.com/xyriath/status/1140347176557731842)

James stared down at the unassuming folder in Commander Iverson’s hand, not making a move to accept it even as Iverson held it out.

“You’re sure,” he said, rather than asked, voice as empty of emotion as the void within his chest.

“Positive.”  Iverson’s voice contained an uncharacteristic gentleness, which might have thrown James had he been capable of feeling anything at all.  “Our agents found… We were able to confirm with genetic tests.  The report is in here.  For when you’re ready.”

James finally reached out and took the thing, fingers nearly recoiling at the unfamiliar sensation.  Humanity hadn’t used paper as a primary method of recordkeeping for decades, and with good reason.  But with Galra interception now a much more pressing concern than long-term planetary sustainability, it had made a necessary comeback.

He flicked it open, glancing down.

 _Evelyn Griffin.  Age 45._  A picture of a woman with familiar brown eyes smiled up at him.   _Status:_

He snapped the folder shut, concealing the four pages within.

“All of them?”  His voice remained neutral.

“I’m afraid so.  I’m sorry, son.”

James just nodded.  “Thank you.”  He turned to go.

“Griffin… James.”

He paused in the doorway, but didn’t turn back.  “Sir.”

“If you need to speak with someone about this, we have—”

“I’ll be fine, sir,” James interrupted.  “Permission to leave?”

Behind him, Iverson sighed.  “Dismissed.”

James didn’t look back as he strode out of Iverson’s office.

—

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” Rizavi murmured, uncharacteristically anxious as she glanced around the ruined city streets.  “This… seems really dangerous.”

“That’s not like you,” James said neutrally, peering around the rubble of what was once a parking garage.  “Clear.  Aren’t you the one usually in support of bad ideas?”

“Yeah, but you usually _aren’t._ ”  She huffed, following.  “So can you blame me for being weirded out that you’re so gung-ho about sneaking out of the Garrison?”

“It’s important,” was all he would say, turning to glance at Ryan.  He received a barely-perceptible nod in return.

“We have a minimum of two hundred and ninety seconds if we want to avoid Galra patrols, and a maximum of three hundred and sixty,” Leifsdottir murmured, and James nodded curtly.

“Move out.”

In retrospect, James should have realized that an easy entrance didn’t make an easy exit.  He should have warned both his team and himself not to get too cocky.

But he followed the map Ryan had drawn for him, eyes peeled for any Galra presence.  Just as their intel had promised, the path was clear, and working their way through the empty streets had to be the least difficult task James had encountered in a long time.  By the time they reached the indicated area, James was fully convinced that they would be back before anyone noticed they were gone.

“There!” Ryan hissed.

The four of them filed into the ruined building, James rapidly sweeping the room with his rifle—and freezing as he trained it on three figures within.

“Hands up!” he barked, but as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized that the occupants had already lifted them in surrender.

“Christine!”

Ryan's jubilant cry rang through his veins, and James exhaled, lowering his gun in relief as the three others rushed forward to embrace Ryan. The delighted cries of reunion echoed through the room, and James had to look away, a lump in his throat.

Introductions went around, Ryan introducing the rest of the squad to his family, though James hung back, awkward and a little uncertain.  After several moments, he cleared his throat.

“I’m gonna go keep watch,” he murmured, glancing over at Ryan, then glancing away.  Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he stepped outside.

“Wait!”

For a moment, James considered bolting, but he was pretty sure they'd hear him and ask questions. Or at least be offended. He stayed where he was as a hand took his elbow with a surprising gentleness.  James swallowed, turning to see two moss-green eyes searching his own.

“James.  Thank you,” Ryan murmured, and James could only nod, mouth dry.

Ryan went back to his family. James headed out onto the streets, determinedly not thinking about his.

A good thing he did, or the Galra soldiers would have surprised them all.  He spotted them first, of course, but only by moments.

Thinking fast, he squeezed off several shots in their direction with the precious time he had, then bolted in the opposite direction from the building where the rest of them hid, knowing that he had only a few seconds to lead them away.

The noise would alert the others that they were under attack.  As he ran, he could only hope he had bought them enough time.

And then a jolt of pain crackled through him, and then he couldn’t think anything at all.

—

They handled him, James thought distantly, almost giddily, like a newborn kitten.  Not that he had the energy to fight them, not after what they’d done, a brief but agonizing assurance that he had no information to give them.  He’d lied, of course, played naive and afraid, and now they were—

The impact of the metal floor cut short his train of thought, and he didn’t know how long he laid there.  Probably not too long, but the time between the impact and a pair of hands steadying him as he finally sat up seemed like an eternity.

“Thanks,” James croaked.  More hands, easing him against the wall even as he let out a low hiss of pain.

He squinted in the dim light, his eyes slowly adjusting and picking out the shapes within the small room.  One, two, three… five forms total, he thought, moving closer, maybe more.

For a fleeting moment, his mind screamed at him to fight, that they were here to hurt him, that he had to get away, but his body promptly responded that it was far too tired to do anything of the sort.  His senses caught up soon, however, and he realized that if they were enemies, they wouldn’t have helped him so gently.

As if to emphasize the point, the rim of a cup pressed up against his lips, and he drank gratefully.  It could be poison, or some sort of truth serum, but frankly, at this point?  He didn’t care.

It seemed to just be water, however, and by the time he finished, his eyes had adjusted enough to take in the occupants of the cramped cell: a collection of seven men and women, all watching him anxiously.

“Which camp did they take you from?” one of the women asked, taking the cup back.  James frowned, the pain in his head beginning to subside as his thoughts cleared.

“What are you talking about?” he croaked, wincing at how bad he sounded.

“The prison camp.  Which one are you from?  We were all…”  But she trailed off, taking in James’s clothes, and her eyes widened.  “You’re from the Garrison.”

This sent a murmur through the rest of the group, and James turned to cough, the nausea from the pain still lingering.

“Y-yeah.”  He ran shaking fingers through his sweaty hair, turning to take them in.  They all wore the same rags, dark bodysuits devoid of individuality.

James wondered when they’d put him in one.  His stomach rolled again at the thought.

“What’re you all here for?”  He glanced between them all.  “It doesn’t seem like it’s for anything good.”

“We don’t know,” came the quiet reply, this from one of the men.  “It’s only been…”  He hesitated, and James understood; how could you count the days in a place like this?  “Less than a week, maybe.”

James nodded again, trying to think and coming up short whenever he tried to turn anything complex around within his head.  Eventually, he pressed his back into a corner and gave up, closing his eyes and focusing on not retching up the water.

There was an undeniably uncertain shuffling, and he cracked open an eye, waiting.

“Do you have any news from the outside?”

James let out a ragged laugh.  Had this been the plan, to see if he would let something slip?  “No.  Nothing.”

They seemed to take the hint, withdrawing, and James closed his eyes again, burying his face in his knees.

Appropriate, wasn’t it, that he’d end up here?  Borrowed time that had finally run out.  As the numbness settled over him, he welcomed it.

The last thing he allowed himself was a flitting wonder of why they were all there.

—

He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Years of military training told him that he’d had about six hours of sleep; years of military drill sergeants had him on his feet at the first hint of a disturbance.  The others in the cell blinked as he practically teleported from his sleeping spot to the empty space in front of the door.  As it swung open, five guns snapped up to train on James.  He stood there, unmoving, defiantly staring down the disappointed expressions of guards who clearly had been hoping to torment unsuspecting prisoners.

“Fine,” the lead one growled, lowering his gun to reach out and grab James by the front of his suit.  “You’re first.”

James remained limp, didn’t struggle, and allowed himself to be dragged—until he stumbled outside the doorway.

The moment the lowered gun was within his reach, he lunged forward, clocking the Galra’s exposed jaw with a fist, then finishing it with a sharp elbow to the same spot.  The guard slumped to the floor, and James snatched the gun as it fell.  Ducking, whirling, taking advantage of the crowd and surprise, he lifted it to the group of guards and let off three squeezes of the trigger, deadly in their precision.

Or, at least, they should have been.

In the deafening silence, it took several seconds for James to realize that nothing had fired.

He didn’t even have the time to recoil in fear before the butts of two guns came down onto him: one in his gut, the other on his knees.  With a sharp cry, he fell to the floor, and clawed hands dug into the back of his shirt and hauled him up.

“You really think we’d be stupid enough to carry weapons that non-Galra can fire?” one of them taunted, then fired a warning shot back into the cell.

James only heard one scream before the steel door slammed shut and they dragged him away.

He expected to be transferred to another cell, or perhaps tortured again.  But when another set of doors slid open, a roar flooded over him.

After several confused seconds, James placed the sound: a screaming crowd, whipped to a frenzy, in the tiered stands of a coliseum. Galra, of every shape and size and shade of purple, screamed their excitement, jeered at him, cried out vile-sounding things in a language he could no longer understand, now that the guards and their translation field had retreated.

His mind couldn't process any of this.  Something this huge?  How?   _Why?_  How far was he from home, really?  But his questions choked to a halt as a clawed hand shoved him forward and he stumbled onto the soft sand of an arena floor.  Something landed next to him with a dull thump, but he barely noticed.

Across the pit of sand, something moved—something huge and purple and ominous.  Something covered in armor.

Beginning to tremble as abject dread settled, like ice, within his gut, James looked at the thing they had thrown him.

A staff, long and made of metal but bladeless.  A quick glance around revealed nothing more.

The guards had made it very clear that they didn’t expect him to survive this fight.  If he was just the first, then the others in his cell would soon share this fate.

As the Galra across the arena approached, he spotted the enormous head of a flail, dragging through the dirt, the handle almost as long as James was tall.

Despite his fear, despite the growing certainty that his last minutes of life would transpire here, away from home, crushed to a bloody pulp no Garrison specialist would ever be able to identify, he reached down and gripped the pathetic excuse for a weapon.

Like hell would he make this easy on them.

—

Once they had returned to Earth, Shiro had spent hours briefing the Garrison on everything he knew of the Galra and how they treated their prisoners.  But as awful as the occupation had been, he had the suspicion that they hadn’t quite believed just how much the Galra were capable of until the broadcast went worldwide.

“ _It is time_ ,” rang the voice that haunted his nightmares, deep and smooth and with the ever-present notes of a snarl that crept over him like lava, “ _for your planet to learn what we do to those who defy us._ ”

A shot of the arena, and he knew what was coming—or thought he did.  He knew it well: an arena aboard Sendak’s ship, no doubt with Galra transported in to observe the breaking of humanity like a sport.  He braced himself for the rest of Garrison command to realize, every eye glued to the screen.

But when the shot settled on James Griffin's face, even Shiro's voice joined the sudden cries of horror and dismay.

Shiro had been there before.  He knew what they were going to do to him.  He'd seen it happen to other prisoners.

And now he sat here, useless, _again_ , completely unable to stop it.

The flail flicked out lazily to start the fight, more of a mocking salute than an actual attack, but it still swept over a terrifyingly large range.  Griffin dodged it nimbly, settling into an evasive stance, circling, gauging the situation.

Shiro recognized the technique, remembered learning it in his combat classes, remembered _teaching_ it to the younger cadets to assist the instructors.  Nausea washed over him at the thought of watching Griffin use techniques that Shiro himself had drilled into him to attempt to stay alive.  If Shiro had slacked, even the tiniest bit, Griffin could be dead.

But Griffin continued to dodge, even as the Galra enemy grew more serious with each swing.  Even as the strikes grew harder to avoid, Griffin kept his distance, keeping an eye out for an opportunity.  A more reckless cadet might have gone in at the earliest chance, wanting to end it all, spurred on by the fear and adrenaline, but not him.

Shiro recognized the techniques even as he recognized the results they produced in Griffin’s opponent: with each dodge, each missed strike, the enormous Galra grew more and more impatient.

Despite his internal protest, Shiro felt something entirely unexpected blooming within him.

Hope.

Griffin’s strike took even Shiro by surprise.  The Galra had turned to taunting, words in Galra that Shiro understood from his time there himself. Griffin, though unable to understand the words, seemed to pick up on the most important meaning.

The Galra flung the flail arrogantly, overextending, and Griffin darted forward.

Shiro couldn’t have picked a better moment himself.  The move was angled perfectly, aimed for where Shiro knew the armor was most vulnerable.  It was a strike that could end a fight decisively.

The staff drove into the armpit of the armor, then snapped in two.

Shiro gasped in horror with the rest of the room—and with Griffin.  The delay at the unexpected loss of his weapon was all the opening the Galra needed.  He swung, and Griffin scrambled back, but nothing could have moved fast enough to escape in time.

The head of the flail grazed his calf, the glancing blow enough to send him spinning through the air and landing in a crumpled heap in the sand.

And as the entire room waited, breath collectively held, Griffin didn’t get up.

—

_I’m going to die here._

The incontrovertible knowledge rang through James’s head, a distant, emotionless fact no more or less significant than “water is wet” and “grass is green.”

Above him, the Galra stalked over.  The pain in James’s leg burned through him like a hot wire, but that wouldn't matter in a moment.

It would be over.  The certain torture ahead.  Any intelligence he might let slip would be safe.  And he’d be able to join…

_You’re the only one left._

The thought rang, unbidden, through his head

_You’re the only one who can remember them._

The Galra lifted the flail for one final strike.

_“James. Thank you.”_

With a gasp in his throat and a pair of green eyes in his memory, James twisted to the side.  The flail whistled past his head, so close that the sand it displaced flew up into his cheek, drawing forth a small stream of blood.

Distantly, he realized that even in his acceptance of death, he hadn’t released either piece of the staff.

With a grunt, he somersaulted out of the way of the next swing, shouting in pain and anger as his injured leg gave way beneath him, and as he struggled to his feet, he barely missed being crushed once again.

But this time, he moved with purpose.

Lunging, ignoring the screaming pain in his calf, he lifted one half of the broken staff and thrust it into the glowing tether of the flail.  An astronomical risk, but if it paid off—

He twisted.  It caught.  He thrust the staff down into the sand, then lunged forward.

The Galra, growling as he attempted to free his weapon from James’s trap, never saw it coming.  At the sudden appearance of an angry human within striking distance, he jerked away, dropping the weapon, reeling backwards—

Exposing the gap between helmet and breastplate.

James thrust home.

The only things that held his senses were the thick, deep purple blood spurting over his hands and the agonizing gargling from around the staff, its jagged edge now buried in Galra flesh.

The Galra slumped back onto the sand, which grew damp and dark.  James watched him fall, numb.

As the death rattle faded, he did have a moment to process precisely what he heard.

Absolute silence.

He slowly lifted his head, taking in the spectators, all of them watching him with… what?  Anger?  Excitement?  Disdain?

As exhaustion swept through him, a smattering of noises reached his ears, then quickly grew into a roar once again.

Jeers.  Cheers.  Shock.  More.

James didn’t care.  He wanted to return to his cell and close his eyes.

When the guards came to collect him, he got his wish.

—

“Fuck,” James snapped, gritting his teeth and screwing his eyes shut.  “What are you doing, cutting it of?”

“Don’t be such a baby.”  The pressure on his leg tightened, and he cracked open an eye to watch the woman treating his leg.  Cameron, she’d said her name was, and she’d been a paramedic before... everything.

That had been the only personal information any of his cellmates had shared, besides their names.  Miranda.  Charles.  Another James, who went by Jim.  Richard, his brother.

James followed suit: he didn’t want to taint good memories with this place.

“You’ll be fine,” she said briskly, finally drawing back.  “I’d say stay off of it, but…”

But they all knew better.  After James had returned, the others had all been marched out, then back in.

One of them, the man whose leg had been shot in warning after James’s attempted escape, hadn’t returned.

He exhaled, drawing into his corner and closing his eyes again.

“I can fight on it?”

“As long as it doesn’t get infected.”

Not here.  Not in this place.  These walls wouldn’t be the last things he ever saw.

“Good.”

—

After his victory, he found that his weapons began to increase in quality.  A reward, perhaps, in the Galra way.  James accepted each one, facing his enemies with grim determination.

But each time they took him from his cell, he learned something else.  Picked up on hand signals.  Noted times of guard patrols.  Mapped out the ship in his head.

The enemies grew steadily more horrifying, genetic aberrations clearly created simply for the purpose of this gruesome entertainment.  James dispatched them all in turn.

Others weren’t so lucky.  By the time James’s leg healed, Charles had been taken for a fight and never returned.

None of them said anything about it.

Four days—or, at least, fights—later, James’s luck ran out.

He’d figured his downfall was inevitable—eventually, the Galra would engineer something too big, too nasty for him to take down, and he’d be shredded to ribbons for the pleasure of the Galra.

Instead, it came in a very different form.

The arena doors opened, and James was handed his weapon.  He strode forward, readying himself, lifting the sword to defend against the first attack.

Instead of a Galra storming towards him, or one of the mutated monsters, the figure across the arena was short, slim—

Human.

He stepped back, shaking his head, gut twisting in horror. Not a chance. No way in _hell._

They’d left a rusty sword in the middle of the sand, too; James’s had been handed to him before he stepped into the pit, a blade of crackling dark energy, and watching the thin woman scramble to the middle for the only available weapon nearly made him sick.

She advanced towards him, terror on her face, the sword held out in front of her.  But James understood, just as she did: the Galra wouldn’t let them go without a fight.

He didn’t expect much resistance, and it became clear within seconds that this would be painfully short.  She swung clumsily; he sidestepped, blocked, struck out himself.  She stumbled back; he pushed forward.

It was over.

Her blade spun out across the sand, and he watched her stumble back and let out a sob, dropping to her knees.

He held out his own sword, knowing what the crowd wanted to see, and she froze as it singed the pale skin of her throat.  “Do you yield?”

Several seconds of ragged, terrified panting, her wide eyes meeting his.

She managed one curt, terrified nod.

He nodded back, relief settling within him, and he stepped away, ignoring the expression of bewilderment on her face, turning to his crowd and lifting his sword in a declaration of victory.

James had picked up enough Galra by now to recognize the declaration of victory, but he didn’t miss the tone of confusion in the words.  Nor did he miss the noise of the crowd: instead of the usual cheers, murmurs of discontent rolled around him like waves crashing on the shore.

Fuck them all, he thought fiercely, and he released his sword disdainfully, letting it fall as he strode purposefully to the doors of the arena.

He knew the Galra wouldn’t stand for his defiance, expected retribution, but the two huge claws on his shoulders as he stepped through the doors still startled him.

They carried him more than dragged him, and not in the direction of his cell, either.  He struggled, a token resistance, until he found himself down a hallway with only one door.

When he recognized the surroundings from broadcasts, his stomach sank.  When he recognized the Galra standing within them, it hit rock bottom.

“Leave us,” came the order, arrogant and forceful, and then James was alone in the commander’s quarters with the Galra bent on subjugating his entire race.

“So,” Sendak murmured, staring at a screen on the wall as if James wasn’t worth his attention or effort.  “You think you’re some sort of rebel.”

James set his jaw, but didn’t answer.

Sendak sighed, waving his claw dismissively.  “Rebel, savior, hero.  You humans are all the same.  You think that you’re making a difference by taking a stand, but in reality, you’re only prolonging your own suffering.”

“I won’t play your game,” James finally snarled, fists clenching as he stepped forward.  His eyes darted around the room: they had taken his weapon, but if he could find another, if he had the element of surprise—

Sendak turned, blindingly quickly, and his enormous claw-like hand darted out, gripping James by the neck and lifting him as effortlessly as a doll.

“But you will.”  He kept his tone perfectly collected, those terrifying yellow eyes meeting James’s with an icy calm.  “You will play my game.  Your species will learn that defying me will only bring pain, and you will be instrumental in showing them that.”  A low, cruel laugh.  “You all give in, in the end.”

“Fuck you,” James spat, gripping at Sendak’s wrist with all the force he could muster.  Sendak didn’t even seem to notice.  “Not all.  We know better.  Shiro taught you better.  He taught _us_ better.”

Sendak paused at that, looking almost thoughtful, before his eyes lit up, a cruel smirk twisting across his face.

“Did he, now?”  The smirk turned into a grin, and James tried to open his mouth, get more air, as the pain in his neck screamed.  “You think that the Champion defied me and got away with it?”

Pain arced through the back of James’s head as he was slammed against the wall; he gasped, the entire room spinning.

“Well, if you’re trying to imitate him, I’ll teach you the same lessons.”  The pressure on James’s neck lightened, but then the sharp prickle of claws took their place.

“Shall we begin?”

—

The broadcast cut off as Griffin was dragged back through the arena’s doors, leaving them all to stare at a blank screen.  The room was silent.  The image would haunt Shiro’s nightmares forever.

Because he knew what fate awaited a defiant gladiator.

And yet, he couldn’t help the small, absurd sensation of pride within him, either; James must have known that his actions would have consequences.

But he’d spared the woman’s life anyway.

“What are they gonna do to him?” came the soft question from beside him, and he glanced over to meet Iverson’s tired, resigned gaze.

Shiro swallowed, looking away.  A smaller, comforting hand gripped his shoulder, and he didn’t have to turn to know that Keith was standing beside him.  Keith, probably the only other person who knew exactly what horrors the Galra put their gladiator prisoners through.  Even Sam had ended up lucky, in a way.

“Nothing good,” Shiro murmured, lifting his eyes to stare at the dark screen.

—

_“You still think that someone is going to come save you.”_

James went through the motions, numb and frozen, barely responsive to the others in his cell, ignoring their attempts at conversation.

_“There hasn’t even been so much as a rescue attempt.  The Garrison?  Silent.”_

James wished that he could scrub Sendak from his pores, but the marks of his claws continued to sting, the timbre of his voice continued to haunt his every waking moment.  When he closed his eyes, James could still smell him.

_“You know you mean nothing to them.  No one is coming for you.”_

Why his capturers had bothered torturing James, he didn’t know.  Why, when you had someone as exquisitely skilled at the task as Sendak?

_“There’s no one left to even know that you’re gone.”_

They put him back in the arena as soon as his wounds healed.  He found Richard across from him.

A test, then.  Pit him against his cellmates, see if James would obey.

_“Your loyalty to Earth is pathetically misplaced.  I would never permit such disrespect to one of my Galra soldiers.”_

The fight took a little longer than the last, but ended the same way: Richard in front of him, disarmed, on his back in the sand.  James loomed over him, blade in hand, Richard watching him with fear in his eyes.

_“Show me that you have a place among us.  Loyalty to the Galra will be rewarded.”_

James’s grip tightened on the sword.

_“The alternative, of course, is more of this.”_

Memories of agony etched into his memory, James held out his sword, dropped it into the sand, and walked away.

—

Being dragged to the dungeons didn’t surprise him.  Seeing Richard there did.

And seeing what they had in store for them—that was the worst surprise of all.

His screams of “ _No!_ ” and “ _Stop!_ ” went unheard; after a point, James couldn’t hear himself over Richard’s screams.

When it was finally over, Richard’s lifeless body collapsed on the cold metal, and James could only stare in horror, unable to stop the tears streaming down his face.

When they shoved Charles in next, James realized that it wasn’t over yet.  Not even close.

They brought Cameron in last.  She died sobbing.

—

They brought him back to his empty cell and left him to spend the night there alone.

The next morning saw him marched back to the arena.  It saw him faced against another man, this one unfamiliar, dirty and ragged and afraid.

It saw blood spilled across the sand and James’s blade dripping, steady and thick, at his feet.  It saw him step back through the doors, numb and expressionless, a guard flanking him on each side.

—

“You warned us,” Veronica said quietly.  All eyes at Garrison command were now fixed on him.  “You said he’d give in eventually.”

“Don’t blame him,” Shiro pleaded, voice low, his gaze the only one fixed at a distant spot ahead of him that none of the rest could see.  “They find a nightmare that you can’t refuse, eventually.  Always.”

Silence stretched across the room, solemn and heavy, until a voice rang out.

“We can’t just _leave_ him there!”

Heads whirled as Rizavi stormed forward, eyes flashing, jaw set.  “We have to do _something._  We’ve been training for this for months.  What’s even the _point_ of it if we can’t make a difference?”

“We can’t risk our assets on one person.”  Sanda’s voice rang out, imperious and clear.  “What’s happened to him is an atrocity, but any attempt at rescue will only leave us with more dead or in the same position.”

“I’ve put together an approach based off of Lieutenant Shirogane’s intelligence,” came Leifsdottir’s quiet voice.  “If executed properly, we have a fifty percent chance—”

“Then submit it for review, cadet,” Sanda interrupted, placing emphasis on the last word.

“And how long will that take?”

Kinkade’s low voice carried an intensity with it that none of the others had possessed.  Though most didn’t know the reason for Griffin’s capture, Kinkade had confided in Shiro one evening, wracked with guilt, and asked if there was anything they could do.

Shiro hadn’t had an answer at the time, but he’d recognized the look in his eyes, just like he recognized the look in Rizavi’s and Leifsdottir’s.  Just like he recognized the determined expression on Veronica’s.

He’d seen it in the other paladins when they watched Shiro.

Shiro stood, stepping around the table towards the cadets.

“None of you should be here,” he reminded them, motioning for Veronica to follow him.  “Admiral Sanda, Serrano and I will see them out.”

He ignored the mutinous expressions on the three pilots’ faces, leading them to the door, motioning them out.  And he didn’t stop there.

“We know the way back to the barracks,” Rizavi grumbled, shooting Shiro a sulky look.  Kinkade didn’t pout, but Shiro could feel the glare on his back, and he had to admit that it coming from someone taller than him, even slightly, was a little disconcerting.

They reached the hallway to the barracks.  Instead of left, Shiro turned right.

“What—”

Shiro didn’t give Kinkade time to answer.

“The access code to the MFE hangar changes every twelve hours.  For the next four, it’s going to be D-T-8-O-3-M.  Get it wrong twice and it’ll lock you out and reset, so be careful.”

Rizavi blinked.  “Wait, D… C—?”

“Understood,” Leifsdottir interrupted, and she and Kinkade each took Rizavi by the arm and pulled her along.

“Veronica,” Shiro asked in a low voice.  “Please see to it that the cadets get back to the barracks safely.”

“Understood, sir.”  Veronica turned to Leifsdottir.  “How long?”

“Give us four days.”

“I can do that,” Shiro murmured.  “Dismissed.”

He turned on his heel and strode back towards the command room.

—

James had two more fights that day.  Four the next.  Six the day after.

He could feel Sendak’s eyes on him, the pressure increasing.  He didn’t receive another offer; he didn’t expect to.

Fight.  Win.  Kill.

It became rote so quickly.

“Victory or death,” the Galra said.  James couldn’t see much of a difference.

Not all of them were human; not all of them seemed innocent or afraid.  Still, James figured, better they die at his hands than those of the Galra.

Her hands scrabbled in the sand as she tried to push herself up, the desire to live keeping her moving for moments longer, and he stepped forward to end her suffering.

With an unexpected quickness, at the last moment, she whirled, her rusted dagger plunging into the muscle of his calf as his blade pierced her throat.

He let out an agonized cry as he collapsed.  His hands clutched the bloody wound, and for a moment, he almost ripped the blade out, but his training kicked in and he pulled his hands away, shaking.

The crowd screamed around him, and he staggered back, scooting away and watching as her hand went limp, her eyes glazing over.

He always did. He refused to look away.   He was the only one who could remember them, now.  He wouldn’t let himself shirk responsibility.

Finally, he managed to pull himself up.  Using his spear as a crutch, he limped his way to the exit.

—

The fact that they hadn’t taken the dagger, James thought distantly, told him everything he needed to know about his expected chances of survival.

He did pull it out, eventually, the empty cell ringing with his cries of agony.  He used it to cut strips from his drab prisoner’s clothing, binding it as tightly as he could, but it took hours before the bleeding slowed to something less than worrying.

When the guards brought his meal, he could barely see through the dizziness, but he didn’t miss the words they threw at him.

“See you in the arena tomorrow.”

His appetite, moments ago intense with his body’s need to replenish the blood he’d lost, shriveled up.  He stared distantly down at the makeshift bandage on his calf, at the dark stain spread across it.  Images of Cameron—her gentle hands treating his injuries, her bloodied face twisted in terror—flashed through his mind, but he was alone, now.

He wouldn’t make it through another match in the arena.  Of that, he had no doubt.  He’d die, on their terms, to their cheers, to their laughs.

James reached out to pick up the knife, still dark with his blood, turning it over and over in his hands.

—

“We’re gonna diiieeee,” Rizavi sing-songed wryly in a low voice, peering around the corner.

“Will you stop that?” Ryan asked, voice flat, gun raised as he took in his surroundings.  “We’re doing fine.”  Leifsdottir had provided them with a projected route as well as sentry patrol schedules, and there was no need to jinx it now.

“Yeah, for now,” she grumbled.  “How are we gonna find him?  This place is _huge._ ”

Leifsdottir glanced down at her datapad.  “If the layout is at all similar—”

“Shh!” Ryan hissed, throwing his arm out and ushering them back.  “Guard.”

They drew back once again, withdrawing into the darkness of the corridor and waiting for the guard to pass.  The Galra’s gait sounded through the corridors, coming closer…

“Wait a second,” Ryan murmured.  Something about it seemed off.  Uneven.

He peeked out from behind the corner, catching the tail end of the guard as he staggered through the halls.

Understanding rocked through him and, ignoring Rizavi and Veronica’s hisses of protest, he darted forward in pursuit.

—

“Aren’t you a little short for a Galra?”

The soft drawl sent sheer terror coursing through James, but recognition, then relief, flooded through right after.

It couldn’t be true, he told himself.  There was no way.  He had to be hallucinating; maybe the wound had gotten infected.

But as he turned slowly, a familiar form filled his vision.

The dagger slipped from his limp fingers, splattering purple blood across the floor as it skidded away.

With his other hand, he slid the stolen Galra helmet off.

“You came,” he croaked, and swayed in shock at the sight of the other two forms rounding the corner. “You all came.”

“Well, _duh_ ,” Rizavi hissed, hoisting her gun and scouting out the area.  “You didn’t think we were just gonna leave you here, did you?”

James groaned. “I’m not going to even ask if you got this approved by command.”  Another wave of pain arced through his calf and he gasped, knee buckling—but this time, someone caught him.

“Get rid of that armor.”  Ryan hoisted James’s arm around his shoulder, voice low and steady.  “We’ll get you out.  You won’t need it.”

With more than a little bit of relief, James nodded, tugging off the pieces of cruel metal and leaving them on the ground alongside the dagger.

Ryan’s firm hands held James up as they began to limp slowly back in the direction from which they had all come.

“Thank you,” James breathed, voice barely audible, but with the way Ryan squeezed his wrist, he knew he’d been heard.

—

There was something surreal about returning to his old life.

Nothing had changed.  The Garrison still lived in wariness of an attack, still worked towards liberation from the Galra, but they were free of the constant terror of death or torture. There were still places in the universe that had hope.

And that—that was enough.

They wanted to talk.  His fellow pilots, the Garrison psychologists, but James only shook his head.  The only one who seemed to understand was Lieutenant Shirogane, and he didn’t push, just offered him a nod and quietly ushered the others from the room, leaving him in the medics’ capable hands.

He spent the best night of his life in a long, dreamless sleep, then woke to four eager, friendly faces.

“Get Lieutenant Shirogane,” he mumbled, doing his best to surreptitiously swipe away the tears that had gathered in his eyes.  Veronica complied while the others pretended not to see them, instead babbling on about things that had happened while he was gone.

“You should have seen him!” Rizavi chattered excitedly.  “Shiro—he was so cool!  He totally went rogue, and secretly set it up so we could leave, and—

But when Shirogane entered the room, they all grew quiet.

James took a deep breath, pushing himself up.  Words tumbled through his head and onto his tongue, and he struggled to start, knowing what they would reveal—but also what they could save.   _Who_ they could save.

“They brought me to Sendak’s Commander’s quarters,” he began, eschewing any leadup.  “I spent some time there.”

Shirogane’s lips pressed together.  “Griffin, if you’d like to—”

“I saw his screens.”  James didn’t need sympathy.  He needed someone to listen.  After what he had gone through, he wanted it to _mean_ something.  And if he could save not only Earth, but the people around him, even all this would be worth it.  “Holt taught us how to read the Galra language when he taught us to fly.  I saw their plans.”

Shirogane’s eyes widened, and he pulled up a chair, expression shifting from sympathetic to attentive.

“Tell me everything.”


End file.
